The Lonely Night

The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache

To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that┬áslumber’s┬ájust ahead –

But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night

The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me

murray river basin

the earth is thirsty so am i
out past where we all come to die
alone and without celebrant
a wastrel bard irrelevant
the half-cocked eye the shaking lip
fair captain of a foundered ship
the desert plain of fated need
to thirst to ache
to drop

to bleed

Graveyard Walk

Graveyard in Fall

Light, the leaves beneath my feet
Soft and silent is the way;
There among the many who
Walked the paths of yesterday

Cool, blows Autumn on the air
Through the paths and stones I thread;
To take counsel with my thoughts
There among the vaulted dead

Those, there are who morbid call
Graveyard roaming such as this;
But its living and not dying
That is truly
The
Abyss


 

(“Graveyard Walk” – 10-24-2014)

Shoes

He’d heard that shoes could make the man.
And so he chose them, carefully:
To show his mastery and span
Of wide parts of society

But one day, when he had to go,
He left one here, to long decay;
It’s empty of its context now,
And baldly shorn of its cachet

For things that outward we display,
Without our inwards, lack all worth:
Like tracks whose trains have gone away,
Or blogs whose authors flee
The earth

The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the

    Audience

Woods On Fire

(From an experience a friend of mine had many years ago. – Owen)

She sees the woods on fire all around,
She’s driving fast and running from the flame;
The forest is consumed in utter madness,
And if she is not quick, she’ll be the same

It’s both sides of the road, but she’ll keep fleeing
The swarming hatred of the burning hive —
She sees the woods on fire all around her,
But she’ll outrun it yet,
And she’ll
Survive

… the end of all of this

Here is the end of all of this:
    most of us, one day,
    will lie in a room where the shadows grow,
    with memories crowded out by pain,
    knowing, only then,
    why we lit so many fires…
Just to keep these very shadows at bay.

Days we spend as interlocking cubes,
    silver and shiny, neat and trim,
    lost in the patterns of our illusions,
    pushing chaos beneath the surface;
    but look — down a hall you’ve already walked,
    there’s a bed and pillow you’re going to use…
And you’ll be joined to all the people who used it before

Symbols

I know the names
Of my patrilineal line
All the way back to 1650
My father
His father
His father’s father
And so forth

But while I have their DNA
Or genetic structure
Or blood
Or whatever today’s science says I have of theirs

To me, now, they’re mostly just
Symbols
Letters on a page
Runes from a bygone past

Except for my father who I knew
And my grandfather, who I’ve heard stories about

The rest?

While, in some ways, those are me
And my brother and my sister
Many are the ancestors that make up a person’s past

Too many to keep track of through time’s annals

Chances are, we’ve all been kings and queens
We’ve all been slaves and downtrodden
We’ve all lived in peace
And we’ve all died in war

But we may not see it

Because we cannot read

The symbols